


the part that cares for you

by sonofabitch_awesome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic Dean, Angst, Angst and Feels, Castiel Angst, Crying Castiel, Dean Angst, Dean Has Issues, Dean is a jerk, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Gen, Hurt Castiel, M/M, Self-Harm, Songfic, This is an angst-a-palooza kids so strap in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabitch_awesome/pseuds/sonofabitch_awesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be so easy to heal every injury. So easy, in fact, that it could be done in less time than it would take to even consider the idea. It wouldn’t be as fast as it would have been before, due to part of his grace being depleted, but in the time he’s taken to remain supine on the floor, he could have been whole again ten times over.</p><p>Except he wouldn’t be. Not whole. Not really. </p><p>Because Dean is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the part that cares for you

**Author's Note:**

> I surprised myself with how mopey and sad this got. Think I could use a cup of tea or something now.  
> Song is "With This Knife" by Smile Empty Soul (also where the story title comes from).
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING for SI** towards the end, in the final section. It’s where the actual story part begins with _“Dean stands at the motel room window…”_ if you need to skip it.  
>  Also **TRIGGER WARNING for alcohol** ; Dean drinks a lot in this story (mostly the last section but a little bit in the next-to-last-section he has).
> 
> I also screwed the timing up in the motel room in 10x23. Apparently, I thought the drinking scene and the “break stuff” scene were the same one. Oops. -_- So for the last section with Dean, pretend he saw Cas TWICE in the mirror. (This also works for my need to edit out Rudy’s appearance to keep it DeanCas related, hehe.) Story timeline goes: he got to the hotel room at night, then the story’s ending section, and THEN he wakes up in the room the next morning groggily and goes on the case / later sees Cas again and also Rudy in the mirror / basically canon for 10x23 after that. Sorry for the confusion!

_I let myself fall into a lie_  
_I let my walls come down_  
_I let myself smile and feel alive_  
_I let my walls come down_

The Bunker’s floor is hard and irksome beneath his vessel’s back, painful to the injuries he hasn’t bothered to heal, and Castiel clings to this in desperate need of distraction. He turns his head to stare unseeingly at the ceiling above him, so lost in thought that nothing registers. He only closes his eyes when the tears overflow shuddering lids that simply can’t hold back any longer. They trickle down through the blood and over his temples, smearing hot and tinged with red into his hair.  
  
He’s _rebelled_ for this man. He’s lied to him and for him, fought with, against, and for him, grieved his death and been grieved in return. He let himself grow more human than angel, let himself fall into an altered life for him.  
  
The plain truth is that he’s fallen for this man, in more ways than one.  
  
Castiel is older than either of the brothers can fathom. He’s seen the extinction of countless species, the groggy gray dawn of humanity, more stars in the sky than there are cells in the human body, mankind’s endless growth and exploration and thirst for knowledge, Heaven and Hell and Purgatory and everywhere in between.  
  
And nothing, nothing has affected him the way Dean Winchester does.  
  
He thinks of the dozens of looks he and Dean have shared – the way they almost seem to communicate by their eyes alone, sharing hundreds of words and not a single one spoken out loud.  
  
He thinks of many hotel room, all blurring together after a while. Doing nothing but “hanging out,” as the brothers put it, during and between cases. The subtle effervescent _clinkhh_ of beer bottles being opened, the crinkles in the corners of Dean’s eyes, Sam’s laughter and infectious good nature, the way the brothers stop mid-sentence and look at each other when they feel Castiel has said something particularly strange or amusing.  
  
He thinks of how long it took him to pick up on the fact that his body’s pulse would thrum a little faster, the heart beating just a little harder, whenever he would decide to go to Dean, or whenever Dean called him. And how it took a while after that to realize it never happened with Sam, much as Castiel was fond of the younger Winchester. And how much longer after _that_ it took to comprehend what it meant. And the anxiety, the terror, the certainty that he couldn’t allow himself to act on the thoughts he’d started to have – because there was absolutely no chance. Not with the way things had started to spiral out of control.  
  
There is a distinct possibility Dean would find the whole idea repulsive, anyway. He has never seen him romantically with another man, after all, much as Dean has a tendency to get along better with males on a general basis.  
  
The Bunker is quiet. It unnerves Castiel, somehow, he who can spend hours or days or weeks standing perfectly still but cannot seem to lie here longer than fifteen minutes in silence.

  


_No matter how I try, I don’t know why_  
_You push so far away_  
_You wrapped your hands tight around my heart_  
_And squeezed it full of pain._

Castiel focuses on the sounds of his breathing, in and out, slightly rough. He clenches his eyes shut tighter, and additional tears slip out and roll down the sides of his face again. The blood from his mouth has trickled down over his face and is drying sticky and vaguely annoying on his cheeks, flecks of it drifting down softly as his body judders with the jagged movement of his breaths. Castiel ignores the more painful wounds, and instead takes notice of the small irritation whenever the dried edges pull at the hair on his face with every swallow or sharper inhale.  
  
It would be so easy to heal every injury. So easy, in fact, that it could be done in less time than it would take to consider the idea. It wouldn’t be as fast as it would have been before, due to part of his grace being depleted, but in the time he’s taken to remain supine on the floor, he could have been whole again ten times over.  
  
Except he wouldn’t be. Not whole. Not really.  
  
Because Dean is gone, and Dean has pushed him away, and Dean gave in to the rage the Mark demanded. Castiel isn’t particularly concerned with the injuries themselves, or even the fact that Dean came precariously close to using the angel blade. He isn’t worried that the Mark itself was compelling Dean’s rage and actions.  
  
He’s more concerned with what it all _means_. Dean _gave in_ to the urges. Dean _gave up_. Dean seems to believe that he is so beyond saving that he sat back and let the Mark control him, because in his eyes, he believes it will happen anyway.  
  
_“What is so worth saving? I see nothing but pain here.”_  
  
Words from what feel like a lifetime ago drift back to him, and Castiel swallows hard, wanting irrationally to scream.  
  
_Dean._  
  
He knows he needs to get up. Take care of this mess. Fix himself, if not the Bunker, before Sam gets here and sees the extent of what Dean did. Start on a plan of action to save Dean. Do _anything_ but stay helplessly on the ground, broken and battered. But too many thoughts are paralyzing him.  
  
Dean’s hand shaking before he stabbed the book, as if worried he might have missed at the last second. The undercurrent of misery in Dean’s voice as he walked away. The spike of déjà vu Castiel had felt, looking up at the gleam of the blade and remembering how it felt to be the one holding the knife and remembering the debilitating terror, once Dean had broken through his programming and Castiel had realized just how close to murder he’d come – how close he'd been to _losing Dean_ , by his own hand no less.  
  
He wonders where Dean is now, what he’s thinking. He’s not of his own mind. He’s not brainwashed as Castiel had been, but the Mark is amplifying every thought of violence and darkness that Dean already had before and adding a driving need for blood on top of that. Castiel wonders what can reach Dean now, how far gone he is and what the _hell_ they’re going to do to fix him.

  


_With this knife, I’ll cut out the part of me_  
_The part that cares for you_  
_With this knife, I’ll cut out the heart of me_  
_The heart that cares for you_  


Dean drives.  
  
It’s late, it’s raining, he’s blowing through some small town at twice the speed limit and _absolutely_ not giving a fuck because he needs to put as much distance between himself and Cas right now.  
And then he has the thought of the Mark compelling violence against someone pulling him over, and he manages to lift his foot from the accelerator a little bit.  
  
There’s been _enough_ blood tonight. More than enough.  
  
It doesn’t matter. Nobody is around; nobody catches him at his still-too-high speed.  
  
_“I'm the one who will have to watch you murder the world...”_  
  
Fuck. Stupid fucking Cas, and his stupid fucking words. Dean remembers hearing some trite saying years ago about love and hate being two sides of the same coin, and he believes it now, because the change in his reaction to that statement… He’d initially felt shocked at Cas’s level of dedication, and then a rush of warmth in his chest at how much Cas _actually cared about him._ And so quickly, fury at the words, waves rushing over the affection and making it hard to remember he’d ever in his life had an emotion other than ire because _goddammit, goddamn everything about that._ If Cas wasn’t… If he was just planning to stand by and….  
  
What the hell good is he if he loved Dean and is going to let him slaughter the world _anyway_?  
  
_“Cas, I need you to promise me something.”_  
  
_“Of course.”_  
  
_“If I do go dark side, you gotta take me out… Knife me. Smite me. Throw me into the freakin’ sun, whatever.”_  
  
_“Cas, I need you to promise me something.”_  
  
_“Of course.”_  
  
Asshole.  
  
Dean clenches his non-driving hand into such a tight fist that he’s mildly surprised when the bones don’t snap. He passes the town’s limits and accelerates, faster than before.

  


_I can’t believe the way you took me down_  
_I never saw the pain_  
_Coming in a million broken miles_  
_Like poison for my veins_

Things had been so simple at the start. Save Dean Winchester, stop the seals being broken, stop the apocalypse. And then things got complicated, and not only by Castiel’s massive failure and error in absorbing the souls from Purgatory. He found his actions hampered, influenced by the brothers – and Dean especially.  
  
As Castiel finally, slowly, gets up and sets about picking scattered books and clothes and tapes off the floor, he wonders how much longer before Sam gets here. Obviously he could easily go to Sam now, and transport him to the Bunker, but he prefers to be alone for now. It is not enjoyable, and not wise perhaps, but he feels like dwelling in his misery a little longer.  
  
Even with angel powers, with all that he could do at the time – with grace full and undepleted – there was no way for Castiel to see all that could have happened. No way to imagine the grief he would go through for this man, and the overwhelming joy.  
  
He remembers when the brothers met him during a case last year, their twin expressions of disbelief at the aliases he had given them (Sam told him later why it was so funny – in all fairness, just because Castiel now had knowledge of musicians and pop culture didn’t mean he had knowledge of what _types_ of musicians and pop culture were generally preferred). He remembers the time at a bar, all three of them together and human, the grin on Dean’s heavy-lidded face as they talked. He remembers every variety of expression Dean has shown, the eye rolls and blinking pauses and annoyed glares and quiet smiles and concerned glances and love-filled eyes. .  
  
And Castiel also remembers the world nearly swirling around him, his blood pressure falling so fast he almost passed out, when Sam told him the truth of what had really happened to Dean. _“Cas… Dean’s a demon.”_ The sudden heaviness in his stomach and the stab of agony worse than a physical injury.  
  
He remembers Dean’s request at a restaurant while Sam was tracking down Claire. The way Dean had trusted him enough to be this vulnerable, and the desperate intensity in his eyes as he’d stared at Castiel, who was being ripped so violently in two that he almost expected to hear it out loud, like fabric tearing. Every cell in his vessel balked at the words, and everything in Castiel screamed _no_ at the thought of having to watch Dean die by his own hands. But when it was something so important, not only to Dean but for a greater good… Castiel couldn’t form words after the request, his throat and mouth too dry to speak.  
  
He remembers Metatron, dripping with spite and schadenfreude, telling him that Dean was dead. Castiel hadn’t been ready to accept it, and would have assumed Metatron was lying just to hurt him, but the knife. The knife was bloody – and moreover, _he couldn’t feel anything from Dean anymore_. Not a single prayer, not an ounce of longing. _Nothing_. And that confirmed it worse than seeing Dean’s body would have.  
  
But this hurts more than all of those. Neither of those were Dean’s choice. Neither of those were Dean choosing to give up.  
  
Castiel is done putting the small things away, and is about to fix the damage to the furniture, but he has a sudden desire to wreck the place worse than it had been before. 

  


_With this knife, I’ll cut out the part of me_  
_The part that cares for you_  
_With this knife, I’ll cut out the heart of me_  
_The heart that cares for you_  


Even with some good music playing and being in his element of driving down some anonymous road, Dean is still furious and miserable. He keeps losing track of words in the song, his thoughts so distracting that they’re more or less a mute button on the radio.  
  
One of the worst parts about what just happened is that it felt _good_. It was a huge relief, in a way. Yeah, part of him was reacting to Cas’s words and his anger at Cas’s stupid-ass loyalty, but the more he pushed his friend around, the better he felt. Hurting Cas was like a gasp for air after being held underwater. It reminded him of one of the many times he’d had a full meal after weeks of eating less than enough to get by (to make sure Sammy had enough). It was _satisfying_.  
  
More than satisfying, it honestly felt like the right thing to do, and every smack of Cas’s head on furniture, each grunt and cry Cas let out, every blow from Dean’s hands made it feel better, a wordless shout in the back of his mind: _yes, this is good, yes, this is good, yes, this is good,_ a rhythm he’d completely lost himself in and almost lost his friend in.  
  
The violence fed the Mark; the Mark fed the violence; and both chased the feeling of righteousness and relief.  
  
He feels sick with the memory.  
  
Cas is never going to forgive him.  
  
And part of him had gone for it just because of how damn good it felt to take his anger out. Even though he’d just killed. Even though the Mark-less version of himself would have been too confused with doubts about what he’d done to get the energy back up to be angry.  
  
He sees a motel advertised up ahead, and decides to stop for the night. But first he’s gonna stock up on a shit-ton of alcohol and get as drunk as he physically can, not giving a fuck about alcohol poisoning. (What’s the point? If he dies, he’ll only come back as a demon again anyway. And frankly, at this point in his decline, there ain’t much difference between demon Dean and human Dean.)  
  
The drunker Dean gets in his motel room, the more he _wants_ to drink. No matter how much he’s had, the knowledge of what he did to _Cas_ , the guy who’s been such a huge part of his life for so long…  
  
It is unrelenting and excrutiating. And nothing is making it go away.

  


_The hate and the fear_  
_The nightmares that wake_  
_Me up in tears_  
_The hate and the fear_  
_The nightmares that wake_  
_Me up in tears_  


Dean doesn’t return that night.  
  
Sam does, right after Castiel has made sure to banish the blood and tears from his face, and they talk about what happened. Castiel doesn’t mince words about what Dean did, knowing Sam would be offended to hear a rose-tinted version of the fight and knowing Sam has seen his brother do terrible things before anyway. He tries to be diplomatic, though.  
  
He mentions the pile of belongings he’d been thrown into, things the Stynes had been about to burn, and that he tried to put them in the rooms where he thought they belonged, but he isn’t sure. Sam nods absently, shrugging that it isn’t a big deal if things are missorted. Castiel mentions the stain of gasoline on some of the photos and says that he made sure to restore them to their former state; Sam thanks him and says he appreciates it.  
  
Both of them cling to the small talk because it’s easier than the more massive questions shouting in both their minds.  
  
How are they going to fix Dean?  
  
What are they going to do?  
  
What if nothing _can_ be done?  
  
Sam spends a few hours searching online, trying in vain to track Dean down. But nothing. No mysterious deaths that would indicate the Mark still needing fed. No black-eyed men on security camera footage (Sam blanches when Castiel says this, half-jokingly). Eventually, Sam retires to his room, one hand on the back of his neck as he walks wearily, his 6’4” frame seeming to have lost a few inches in the downward curve of his shoulders.  
  
And then Castiel is alone, sitting quietly and resolutely at the table. He looks down at his hands. Adjusts the trench coat. Folds his fingertips into each other. Tries desperately to ignore the knot of panic building inside of him.  
  
He is very glad that he has his own grace back – because he would not want to sleep right now for anything on the planet or in Heaven. He had a tendency for nightmares when he was human (or with pilfered and dwindling grace). He has had many nights waking up in a fog of misery, curling in on himself pathetically. Sometimes he’d woken up crying, although he never once sat up and screamed from a nightmare, like the cliché from human pop culture. And the likelihood of a nightmare right now is insurmountably high.

He would do almost _anything_ if Dean would just return.

 

_The nightmares that awake_  
_Me up in tears_  
_The nightmares and the hate and the fear_  
_The nightmares that awake_  
_Me up in tears_  
_The nightmares and the hate_

Dean stands at the motel room window, glaring unseeingly into the storm outside, clenching a beer bottle so tightly that it suddenly breaks. Splinters of glass wedge into his palm, larger sections slice into his hand, and the blood slipping through his fingers catches his eye, a flare in the edge of his vision.

It’s so satisfying.

Without giving it much more thought, Dean lets the curtain fall and grabs one particularly sharp fragment of the beer bottle, letting the pieces in his other hand drop to the floor with a quiet _clink_ ing shatter. He pushes it into the thick skin of his palm just below his fingers and drags. Over his palm. Down his wrist. All the way up to his elbow, pressing deeper and deeper as he goes.

It’s not sharp enough. Not nearly enough to quell the still-swirling ire in the back of his mind. Blood slowly wells up and trickles along his arm, and he does it again, the same distance, harder. He needs to shed as much blood — _more_ — as he made Cas shed.

The carpet is spotted with red, and Dean is on the third line when he’s caught suddenly by how pointless this all is.

He’s in the bathroom rinsing his arm when he happens to look up to the mirror, for no reason at all.

_Cas._

He stares at Dean mournfully, blood completely obscuring his mouth and caking the side of his face. Specks of it stain his trench coat, and his _eyes_ …

Dean swallows hard, staring back.

Cas could out-Puppy-Eye-Look Sam right about now. _Why?_ he seems to be asking Dean in their wordless way. _Why, Dean?_

Dean can’t stand it anymore. He fixes his gaze down on the red-flecked sink, then strides away from the accusatory hallucination.

He drinks. He drinks as if he’s trying to induce nausea, desperate to push everything back. But with every bottle, the thoughts Dean has been pushing away begin to crawl back.

_“Sam… and everyone you know, everyone you love – they could be long dead._

_“Everyone except me.”_

_The asshole loves him. The asshole knows_ Dean _loves_ him.

The nausea suddenly kicks in, and Dean’s racing off to the bathroom, falling to his knees before the toilet.

When he feels stable enough (physically, anyway), he sits back against the bathtub shakily, trying to breath. Drags the back of one hand along his mouth. And then the object propping him up reminds him of how Charlie had ended up – _because of him_ – and he barely leans forward in time for another round.

How many people is he going to hurt? Doesn’t Cas get that?

He remembers a rainy pier, one of the last nights before the Mark. _I’m poison, Sam._ Even before this steady, irreversible, hopeless decline, he’d known. _People get close to me, they get killed… Or worse._

That is one of the reasons he’d tried so desperately to hurt Cas.

Because as long as Cas was in Dean’s life, his days were numbered anyway. Because he was furious that Cas would stick around, _knowing_ what happens to Winchester friends and family. Because Cas had known what happened to Kevin and Charlie and his parents and Jessica and Ellen and Jo and Bobby and… Everyone. Everyone, every time. And the dumbass _still said he’d be there for Dean._

So what else could he have done but push things? He _had_ to act. He _had_ to push Cas away. Piss him off, beat him up, shove him so far away that he’d finally get a fucking clue and leave. He hadn’t given a single consideration to the lethality of the Mark until it was almost too late.

He stands. Flushes the toilet. Heads out of the bathroom, the world swirling dangerously around him as he walks. He stocks the bedside table with a couple more bottles, and then his legs finally give out and he sways and collapses as consciousness _finally_ fades away.

-

  


I did not come up with the “Cas is extra hurt by Metatron saying Dean’s dead, because although Metatron could easily be lying, Cas realizes he can’t feel longing anymore” thing. That goes to this tumblr post: collectionofdestiel.tumblr.com/post/110369268502/whenever-metatron-told-cas-that-dean-was-dead-i (Sorry, I tried to link it about 11 times and kept getting it wrong!)

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry to break everybody's heart with this. I don't know where it came from. You're all welcome to come share my tea if you need it.


End file.
